


Stardust

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s, 31 Day January Challenge, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Ancient History, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crimean War, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ficlets, Fluff, Gen, Historical, Historical Cameos, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Medieval Iceland, Mild Angst, POV Outsider, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 14,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: 31 Good Omens ficlets.#29 - Lullaby - Raphael played music in the nursery.#30 - Witch - Sergeant Shadwell, newly promoted to his rank following the untimely demise of Sergeant Houseplant, is a bloody genius.#31 - Storm - There were no words as they walked back to Soho, nothing in Aziraphale’s head except the frantic pulse of his own corporation’s heart, beating a steady rhythm. A rush of human blood around his body. And the warmth of Crowley’s hand on his arm, Crowley’s shoulder bumping his.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 327
Kudos: 257





	1. Poem

**Author's Note:**

> I missed out on some Christmas challenges and I literally love writing ficlets more than anything else, so as a treat to myself I will try and do one every day in January.

Shakespeare, that miracle glove-maker’s son, may have perfected the sonnet but he did not invent it. 

It had come from Italy, as all good things did. Aziraphale had read a great many of them - copied them too - before the verse ever found its way from the sun-soaked cities of Italy to the rainy fields of England. 

Sonnets are beautiful. Fourteen lines, an act two change of pace, a couplet to finish it off. So perfect. Like a sculpture, or a portrait, a moment trapped forever. Aziraphale has never had the hands of an artist, but he’s been able to hold a pen since the first time a human had the idea of writing.

But angels don’t make art. Heaven is devoid of colour, of pictures, of words, of anything that implies its occupants have passions beyond their god-given duties.

Aziraphale has not been an occupant of Heaven for a long time. 

And poetry is safe. Parchment can be hidden away, tucked into drawers, thrown into the fire if someone from Heaven comes knocking. Not that to throw it away wouldn’t break his heart, but it has to be safe. He has long suspected that he is already too human for Gabriel’s tastes. 

Will has suggested that he start with sonnets, with their structure, easy for beginners. Aziraphale is adept at following rules. But in his rooms, right now, faced with a blank sheet of parchment and a freshly cut quill, rules are the furthest thing from his mind. 

“You write a sonnet about something you love,” Will had told him, then grinned. “Or someone.”

_Someone you love._

Aziraphale isn’t sure if he’s ever loved anyone, except for God.

But the moment Will said it - red hair, long limbs, yellow eyes are crawling under his skin like insects, like fire burning him from the inside out. They are all that he can think about, and his fingers itch to pick up his pen and write the picture. If he can just commit him to paper. Just find the words. It will scratch the itch. He can bleed it out onto the page.

It will have to, because a poem is one thing, one transgression he can toss in the fire and pretend it never happened. 

The other thing - that won’t be so easily forgiven.


	2. Silver

The flat is quiet, not even the tick of a clock to mark the passing of time, and Aziraphale is sat frozen on the sofa. The scent of burning something lingers in the air, despite his best attempt to clean up the melted demon that Crowley had so vaguely waved his hand at as they stumbled in the door.

Crowley has gone to bed, practically asleep on his feet since they boarded the bus in Tadfield, and Aziraphale is alone, his mind working through Agnes Nutter’s prophecy again and again. If he doesn’t come up with something, the fate of the demon on the study floor will be Crowley’s. And as for himself - well, he needs to stay calm. 

_Come up with something!_

He had yelled that not very calmly at Crowley. And Crowley had, because he always comes through. He’s pushed himself to exhaustion coming through. 

And Aziraphale will not - _will not_ \- let him down. 

There’s a moment later, as soft dawn light breaks over the windows, when Aziraphale has the kernel of an idea. Just a passing thought. But maybe he’s done it. 

So he goes into Crowley, takes a deep breath, steps over the threshold into Crowley’s _bedroom_ and sits down carefully. 

He’s so close he could touch him, and he almost does, because Crowley has always saved him and they might die today. The demon breathes gently, his dear face relaxed, and Aziraphale can’t help himself. Just one touch.

Then Crowley turns over, and nestled half hidden in his fire red hair is a single silver strand. Aziraphale stares at it. Their corporations do not age. They’ve been exactly the same, the two of them, since the first moment. 

Silver hair happens to old humans or - well. Crowley _has_ been very anxious of late. For the last eleven years, really. And yesterday. He _stopped time_. He displaced himself, an angel and the actual anti-Christ into his own pocket universe. And he faced down Satan. And he walked away. 

A silver crown. 

Crowley has always come through for him, and now he wears a silver crown to prove it. 

And Aziraphale will not - _will not_ \- let him down.


	3. Marionette

“Come ooon, angel, you might enjoy it!”

“I highly doubt it,” Aziraphale said, but he was wavering, so Crowley tempted just a little bit. 

“You can get some of that liquorice you like. They’ve started selling it now.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale said, throwing up his hands. “But I won’t enjoy it.”

They took the new Bentley, of course. 

Crowley was a big fan of the cinema. He’d spent a lot of time there since the first one opened in London. But the war got in the way a bit and he’d had to be all over the place, so this is the first time he’s seen Aziraphale for a while to have a proper chat. They are well overdue a catch up. 

“You’ll like it, angel, I promise,” Crowley said as they took their seats. 

Aziraphale popped a liquorice in his mouth and looked pointedly at the children surrounding them. 

“Are you quite sure we are the intended audience for this, my dear?”

“There isn’t an intended audience. I’ve seen all sorts of humans enjoying this. And anyway, last place upstairs or down would think to look for us, right? Nice safe meeting place.”

Crowley knows he talks a lot when he’s nervous and since the church in 1941 Aziraphale has been looking at him strangely when he thinks Crowley isn’t looking at him. Like he is right now. 

Finally it goes dark and Aziraphale turns his attention to the screen. Honestly Crowley isn’t sure if Aziraphale _will_ like it or not, but he had to think of something to get him out of the bookshop and back into their routine. The angel has always been a sucker for art.

And it is art, that’s the funny thing. Crowley has seen it all, from the earliest cave paintings right through to this. The humans have more imagination than Heaven or Hell ever had, combined. 

And if that imagination has led to this - drawings that are alive, a cricket in a top hat and a tail coat singing a little song about wishes - then who is Crowley to judge? Especially when he sneaks a glance at Aziraphale and finds that the angel has a very small smile on his face, and he’s moving his head to the music. 

He settles back in his seat, reaches over to grab a handful of the tangy sweets from Aziraphale’s paper bag and grins when the angel taps the back of his hand in reprimand. 

A singing cricket. Who’d have thought it?


	4. Hesitation

Crawley’s story starts in a garden. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that it ends there, with the angel who knocks him off his axis and sends him spinning. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that one story ends there and another begins. 

Or maybe it more accurate to say those things _will_ happen, because right now he is hanging in the trees just watching the angel on top of the wall. The humans are long gone, and the garden is quiet. There are no other angels about, of that Crawley is sure, because he’s been here a while now and he knows their hideouts. Bloody Uriel is gone and there’s just this one, the Principality, wringing his hands and pacing. Crawley has only fuzzy memories of Heaven but he isn’t sure he’s ever seen an angel do either of those things before. They’re usually so full of self-righteous confidence.

It’s boring here, now that he’s done his job, but the last thing he wants to do is go back down to Hell where he will be jostled on all sides and boring is a very dangerous thing. 

He could talk to the angel. This one really doesn’t seem that threatening, with his fluffy white hair and his round shape. Why, Crawley hasn’t even seen the flaming sword for a while now, although he’d have to stand well enough away just in case the angel has it stashed somewhere. Crawley is pretty sure he could just snake out and escape if he tried anything. 

And it is _so boring_ here. 

He slips down from the tree and slithers towards the wall. His tongue flickers out, and he can taste something electric in the air, a shift in pressure. Still no other angels though. 

From here he can’t see the angel anymore, but there are the faintest vibrations ringing down the wall from where he is pacing. Anxious. The angel is anxious, and Crawley wonders how he knows that word, because it isn’t one he’s ever heard before. But anxious. Anxious. Maybe it’s been in his head all along and he’s never needed it before. 

He wonders if it will make the angel more or less likely to smite him where he stands. 

Then again, the worst thing that will happen is he’ll be discorported and it will take a while to get a new body, if they even decide to assign him one at all. But he’s done a good job with the humans so it shouldn’t be too hard. 

The angel is still as Crawley peeks up over the edge, and he’s gazing out at the desert where the humans went. Anxious. There’s that word again, popping into his head. 

This angel is worth the risk. Crawley isn’t sure how he knows that either, but he does. 

Time for a story to begin.


	5. Sailor

The ark smells.

It smells very, _very_ bad. 

Aziraphale has been up in Heaven since the flood started. In truth, he fled there so he didn’t have to hear the screaming. It was perhaps the first time that Gabriel’s company seemed preferable to what was happening down on the Earth. 

But he’s back now. The air is still, no sound out there except for the lapping of the water, the wash of waves. Forty days, they all said, and that means that soon Noah will send out a bird which will surely bring back some sign there is land again. Aziraphale hasn’t spotted it yet, even flying in a wide circle around the ark, but the promise made was for land and so he must have faith - as Noah does - that it will come. 

In the meantime, he has landed on the ark and slipped below the deck.

And it smells terrible. 

By rights, no human should have been able to build a ship this large, let alone float it. But Noah and his sons are favoured with divine intervention, and so the thing floats and the animals tucked away in the bowels are not, currently, trying to eat one another. Aziraphale doesn’t know what will happen when they hit land and the creatures are released, and the lamb once again becomes prey for the lion, but he’s sure the Almighty will have it all in hand. 

He’s prowling through the enclosures, avoiding the humans, soothing the fractious animals. 

Looking for the demon. 

He’s sure that Crawley is here somewhere, or has been here. He has a vague feeling when the demon is nearby, and he felt it as soon as he returned to Earth. And if there is no land, as he thought, then by elimination he must be here. 

Crawley had been very angry the last time they met, as the rains started. It was his job to question the Almighty, being a demon, but the outrage had not been what Aziraphale expected. Outrage implied that Crawley cares.

Cares about the humans.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to think about that. 

He finds Crawley by the big cats, gazing into the enclosures. 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hisses.

“Thinking. Thinking what if I was to shake these guys out of whatever spell they’re under. Let them loose down here.”

Aziraphale gapes, his hand going to a belt that doesn’t exist, to grasp a sword he gave away. 

_Bad angel._

“You wouldn’t -”

“Could,” Crawley shrugs, turning his head just enough that Aziraphale gets a glimpse of yellow eye. “Then where would She be, huh? Her precious animals all gone down a tiger throat for dinner.”

“Crawley - I’d stop you. I’ll stop you.”

A lion yawns. Aziraphale could count its teeth. 

“Sure you would, angel. Don’t panic, I’m not going to do it. Don’t fancy being discorporated by that giant gob.”

The ark creaks around them. The water laps at the sides. Cautious, Aziraphale goes to Crawley’s side. Leans against the enclosure. 

Crawley clears his throat.

“Are they all gone, angel? Every single one?”

“Yes.” A beat of silence, a hand in the dark. “I’m sorry.”


	6. Piano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure this has been done before, but if it has - well, this is my version.

A French 75 they call it, and Aziraphale has drunk his way through five of them now. Or maybe it is six. Champagne _and_ gin, a hint of lemon, something sweet on the edge of his palate. 

The Americans even do prohibition decadently. 

Aziraphale tugs at his cuffs, runs a finger under his collar. It’s hot in here, the air thick with cigarette smoke, and he’s still not found the man he’s looking for. He takes up his glass and turns on the stool he’s perched himself on, one eye on the door. This has been one of the better coin tosses that he lost. He’s not been to America since Jamestown, and in the heady post-war boom, this country is definitely one of the better places to be.

Well, in New York at least. He doesn’t even mind he’s here to tempt.

It’s gone midnight by the time a young man sidles in, his hat pulled low on his head. He’s the one. He comes up to the bar, orders a bourbon. Keeps his eye on Aziraphale, just like a good little paranoid company man. 

“You look like a bull I know,” the man says, swigging his drink. “‘’Cept you don’t look as stupid as him.”

“Never been one for the law myself,” Aziraphale says. When he’s tempting, he tries to sound like Crowley. _Think_ like Crowley. “Ezra Fell. You are?”

“Tommy Gambino. Ain’t see you round here before, Ezra Fell.”

“Fresh off the boat,” Aziraphale shrugs, sips at his drink. He probably shouldn’t have drunk as many as he did. That doesn’t stop him waving the barman over again. 

“Looking to find myself a can-opener,” he says, as another glass is pushed into his hand. “I don’t suppose you know anyone, do you?”

Tommy grins. As he opens his mouth to reply, a piano begins to tinkle in the corner. Tommy bites his lip and turns around eagerly. Aziraphale, of course, looks as well. 

Then has to blink. 

Crowley. 

She’s perched on the piano as the man at the keys starts his set, and she’s dressed in a blood red, low cut, split to the thigh dress. Aziraphale is gaping. That much he knows. He’s not seen Crowley like this for - a long time. 

_Too long._

His stomach churns, a hint of sweetness on his lips as he licks them. It’s hot in here. 

Then there is a sharp elbow in his ribs, and Tommy grabs at his arm. 

“Don’t stare, not if you want to walk outta here.”

“Uh - why?” Aziraphale asks, as Crowley leans on her elbow, bends a knee. 

_Temptation._

“She ain’t for taking.” 

Crowley picks up a drink, laughs, takes the piano man’s hat and slips it on. 

Looks right at Aziraphale. 

And licks her lips. 

Crowley’s not for taking. But Aziraphale thinks if he asked… 

__If he asked…_ _


	7. Sacred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose a totally random prompt list for this month and was pretty amused it had words like today's on it. Expect a few more that really tie in well with the Good Omens theme ;)

He’d always been afraid that if he actually touched Aziraphale, the angel would burn him. Burn the skin right off his grasping hands, burn right through to the core of his demonic soul, burn him till there was nothing left. 

It stopped Crowley touching him for so many years. For _so_ long. Not because he was afraid for himself. How could he be afraid when to touch Aziraphale was the only thing he had ever wanted? Even if it was the end of him, because surely it would be. But he was afraid for Aziraphale, afraid of how the angel would look at him in those final moments, as his divine energy coursed through Crowley’s veins, boiled his blood, flayed the skin right off his back. No, Crowley couldn’t stand the thought of it. 

So he didn’t touch. 

Aziraphale was sacred ground. 

Aziraphale was sanctified.

And what was Crowley, except full of sin?

_And God, Satan - Someone - he wished he could confess it._

Then it was the war, again - so soon after the other one - and Aziraphale was in trouble, because of course he was. Couldn’t go five minutes it seemed. Wrapped up with a pack of Nazis, galavanting around London playing at being a spy. Somehow Crowley doubted these had been the angel’s latest orders. Didn’t seem a lot of reason for Heaven to be interfering with this wacky plan. 

And it is going to end in a church, because someone up there sure liked to test Crowley. He hovered on the edge of the yard, his toes a bare inch from the sanctified ground. Graveyards weren’t too much trouble, although they made him ache a bit, but a church - that was a different story. He could burn up before he even got down the aisle and then where would Aziraphale be, except definitely discorporated by a Nazi bullet, and where would Crowley be except discorporated and miserable and maybe not even allowed to come back up if they realised why he’d been in a church in the first place. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Crowley wasn’t sure if he was cursing himself or Aziraphale as he took the churchyard at a jog, the tell tale tingle on the soles of his feet, and threw himself through the heavy wooden door. 

He’d always been a gambler.

One toe on the floor. Two toes. One foot. Two feet.

No fire. 

Burning on his feet, of course, hot, hot, hot, but not going up in holy flames. 

And there was the bloody idiot himself, gaping as Crowley skipped down the aisle. God, Crowley loved him so much. 

One bomb later, they were standing in the ashy ruins of a church and Crowley was reaching for a bag clasped in a Nazi hand. Saved the books yes, because Aziraphale would look at him just like he was right now, but also because if a _church_ didn’t burn him up...then maybe an angel wouldn’t either. Saved the books because Aziraphale would reach out to take them and Crowley could hold them just too tight, so their fingers brushed. The first time, ever. 

And a fire did go up his arm at the touch, licking its way to his demon soul. 

“Lift home?” he asked, curling his hand into his pocket, as altogether different flames to what he had been fearing ravaged him from the inside out.


	8. Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew this one got experimental.

On the last day, Aziraphale hopes that there will be a sunrise. 

He’s seen many of them, of course, over the millennia. Sunrises. He’s seen them everywhere. 

He’s seen them at the top of the world, when the sun comes up and doesn’t set for a whole turn of the Earth. He’s seen them out at sea, when the clouds are so iridescent in their beauty that he imagines he’s back in Heaven, how it used to be. He’s seen them out in the desert, lighting the dunes so brightly he thought if he looked the heat would have made glass beneath his feet. He’s seen them during wars and he’s seen them during peace, in every country, on every continent. Everywhere an angel could put a foot, he’s seen them.   
So he hopes on the last day, the very last, there will be a sunrise.

The very last day, when the little Earth experiment finally comes to an end, when the humans aren’t there - gone or moved on, he doesn’t know which. He’s not as convinced by Crowley’s theory of the Real Armageddon as the demon seems to be. But when the Earth is once more quiet, and the little creatures upon it are ruling once again, and there is no need for an angel or a demon to be there watching anymore, they will be there anyway, because they always have been. He’s not leaving until the end. The Earth has served him well, and he will return the favour. 

When that happens, he will stand and watch the sunrise. And perhaps Crowley will hold his hand, or he will hold Crowley’s. And they will watch as that star - not one of Crowley’s stars but one of _Hers_ \- comes wearily to the sky one final time. 

The death of a star, Crowley will say, is a beautiful thing. Natural, like all things. The sun is even older than we are, angel, he will say. Imagine the things it could tell you. 

Crowley will be very stoic about it, sunglasses on the end of his nose, his yellow eyes reflecting the enormity of the new red giant careening towards the little rocky home they’ve shared for so _so_ long.

It’s beautiful, Aziraphale will reply, and he will shed a tear or two - of that he is sure. 

_Their home._

And at the last moment of that last day, whenever it comes, they will leave. Quietly, with no ceremony, they will leave how they came to the Earth. Alpha Centauri is Crowley’s plan, always has been, but it will depend on how the rest of the stars are holding up before they decide where to go.

Or maybe the time will be right to simply let go, to become energy and go off together, twisting and turning through the dying stars of the solar system, the precious solar system they’ve always loved together. Where they loved together. Where they loved one another. 

On the last moment of the last day, after the last sunrise, Aziraphale will not mind where he goes. So long as Crowley is going with him.


	9. Youth

“So like,” the girl said, leaning on the bar. “Is he your daddy or something?”

“What?” Crowley choked, dribbling whisky down his chin. “My - what?”

“You know,” the girl shrugged, shifting a matchstick around in her mouth like she was some gangster in a speakeasy. “Your sugar daddy or whatever.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.” Crowley pushed his sunglasses up his nose. “Um-”

“It’s none of my business,” she said. “Only this place isn’t exactly hopping as you can see, and I’m bored out of my skull. And I like you. And I like him.”

Him being Aziraphale who had, just a moment previously, gone to have a word with the lads playing pool in the corner. Thank goodness, because this was not an Aziraphale conversation. Not one that would lead to anything less than Crowley burning up with embarrassment, anyway. 

“How old do you think I am?” he asked. 

“Dunno. Hard to tell with old people. Forty - forty five. And he’s like - fifty five?”

Crowley snorted and took up his glass again. Kids were so funny.

“You’re way off,” he said. “I’m actually older than him.”

“No way. What skin routine do you do?”

Much safer ground. Crowley invented skin routines. Well, he invented needing seventeen different things to make up a good one. Skin care in general he was all for. All for humans taking care of themselves. 

“What have you been discussing so intently?” Aziraphale asked, interrupting as they debated the merits of toner. 

“Moisturiser.”

“Oh. I don’t have many opinions on that myself,” Aziraphale said, slipping back onto his barstool. 

“You’re telling me,” the barmaid muttered under her breath, winking at Crowley. He chuckled and knocked back his drink. 

“Come on, angel. Take an old man home, will you?”

“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale said, a slightly bemused look on his face. “Are you tired, my dear?”

“Knackered.”

With deliberate slowness, Crowley pulled his credit card out of his wallet and passed it to the barmaid, grinning with just enough teeth that she blushed as she took it from him. 

“What on earth was that about, darling?” Aziraphale asked, as they left the pub, Crowley holding possessively onto his arm. “That poor girl was so red I thought she would faint.”

“Nothing,” Crowley said, kissing his cheek. “Just thinking how I like to look after you.”

“Oh. Well that’s alright then. Home?”

“Home.”


	10. Scent

There’s an angel in this hospital. That’s what all the men are saying. 

The angel will look after us, they say. Walking the wards, all hours of the day and night. Chasing the sickness away. 

Crowley is amused, of course. He’s heard these whispers before, in a hundred languages, at a hundred different times, and always followed them to his prize - sometimes across continents. Aziraphale just can’t help himself when it comes to human dying of preventable diseases. They’re not due to understand germs properly yet but the angel has always been good at working right under Heaven’s nose when it comes to these things. Crowley lost count of the number of villages he single handedly saved during the Black Death. Worked himself almost to the ground that time. 

Funny though, Crowley thinks, as he stalks the corridors. Usually he can sense Aziraphale, especially when he’s doing as many miracles as he must be doing now. But at the moment, he’s having trouble locating him. He’s here somewhere in the bloody Crimea, in the middle of a war - again - but the feeling is weak. He must be tired. Working too hard. Crowley might whip him back to London for a little dinner at some hotel, a night of rest in the bookshop. Someone has to look after the idiot. 

It’s the middle of the night as Crowley prowls around, but he’s dressed in a British uniform and shrouded in a killer attitude, so no one is bothering him. He flicks out his tongue, pulls in the heavy air. It’s thick with disgusting human smells of course but there’s something else. Soap, and the slight metal of water boiled very hot. Sharp scent of night air from one of the wards, and he peeks in. A window is open, the curtains moving gently in the breeze. 

It is pretty clean here.

He rounds a corner and literally bumps into Aziraphale.

“Angel! Been looking for you.”

“Hello, my dear. Rather a mess all of this.”

“Always is, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale is dressed in a similar uniform to Crowley, but he has a medic’s mark sewn onto his sleeve. In the half light coming from the lamps, the angel looks well. A lot better than Crowley would expect of him here. 

“You’ve been busy,” Crowley says, waving vaguely at the ward behind him. “Smells clean. The men are talking about the angel.”

“Ah - well - “

“This is not a place for conversation, sergeants,” says a sharp voice, and they turn. There is a small woman, dark haired and severe, holding a lamp and examining them. “Sergeant Fell, I would expect better of you. The men need their rest.”

Crowley feels a tug at his lips as Aziraphale bows his head humbly. “My apologies, Nurse Nightingale. Only Crowley here is an old - acquaintance. I did not expect to see him here.”

“That is very well,” she says, eyeing Crowley so thoroughly he actually starts to feel uncomfortable, and shifts his feet. “Only go and reacquaint yourselves elsewhere.”

“Of course. Come on, Crowley.”

Her eyes stay fixed on them as they walk down the corridor, turn the corner that will take them down the stairs and out. 

“Who is that?” Crowley chuckles. “She could give Ligur a run for his money with that stare.”

“Nurse Nightingale. Extraordinary woman. She’s quite turned this place around.”

“That’s her? The soap and the fresh air?”

“Yes. She’s the angel the men have been talking about. I’ve had barely a thing to do aside from my assignments.”

“Wow. Think the tide is turning, angel? Are they finally going to get interesting?”

“Oh my dear. I think they already have.”


	11. Embrace

Easy job. Infiltrate the Antichrist’s human home. Help bring up the Antichrist. Influence the Antichrist exactly enough that he will be a normal human by the time the Apocalypse rolls around. 

It’s easy. Crowley could do it standing on his head. 

Only, it turns out that raising a kid isn’t as simple as he thought. Especially when said kid is basically thrust upon him by parents almost all of the time, and said kid is desperate for some affection, and said kid is so _damn_ adorable. 

And also it turns out that living in close proximity to the angel you’re in love with when raising said kid, and said angel is helping you with your job, is also pretty hard. 

Nanny Ashtoreth reflects on this as she lounges in Brother Francis’ little cottage, and watches as he sits with Warlock on the floor, lining up the animal figurines two by two. He’s telling Warlock the story of course, and the toddler is rapt, small hands grasping at Brother Francis’ sleeve. Brother Francis does know how to tell them, that much is true. 

Nanny sips at her cup of coffee and closes her eyes. Just for a moment. Warlock is safe, the safest he can be when he isn’t with her, and the cottage is warm. Homey. The angel has been experimenting with baking when he isn’t in Brother Francis mode, and the air smells of gingerbread. The murmur of voices is the most unbearably comforting thing. Only here, in this safe place, can Nanny ever find the quiet soothing. 

“So Noah sent out a dove to look for land, and when it came back with a branch, he knew that God had kept their promise, and soon they would be able to get off the ark and start again. Can you say dove?”

“Dove, dove. Dove,” Warlock chants. Nanny opens one eye to see him leap to his feet, a little bird figure in his hand. He runs around the sofa, trips over his own feet, bounces his head off the wall. Starts to wail. 

She sits up but Brother Francis is there first, gently running a hand over the little boy’s forehead. 

“It’s alright, young master,” he says. “Just a little bump.”

A spark of angelic power. It seems Brother Francis can’t bear to hear him cry either. 

Warlock buries his face into Brother Francis’ shoulder, and he carries him around the sofa, sits down next to Nanny. She gathers her feet in to give him space. Warlock snuffles into the worn coat and Brother Francis runs a hand down his back. 

“Nanny,” Warlock mumbles. “Wan’ Nanny.”

“Of course, my pet,” she says, holds out her arms. But Warlock has other ideas, pulls at her arm with tiny hands. He isn’t strong enough to move her, of course. But he wants her and she goes, pulled in close till her head rests against Brother Francis’, and Warlock holds them both tightly. Francis’ breath is warm against her cheek, and she curls her fingers into her palm, nails digging in too hard. It’s close, too close. Too much. His scent, too strong. His hair, too scratchy against her cheek. His body, too warm. 

And she doesn’t want it to end.


	12. Touch

The first shed in the cottage is a real bitch.

Not because Crowley doesn’t feel safe there, or as comfortable as he can when he’s sloughing all of his skin off in one go, and not because Aziraphale isn’t terribly understanding about the whole thing, but it’s a bitch nonetheless. 

The first thing he knows of it is the familiar itch between his shoulder blades.

“Gonna be shedding soon, angel,” he says over the breakfast table, trying to make it sound like it’s no big deal. “Gonna be a right bastard but it’s not personal, okay?”

“Of course, my dear. What you do need?” Aziraphale puts down his newspaper in order to hear the reply. That means he thinks it is Important. 

“Get the office ready for me to hole up in there for a week or so. Sticks. Some rocks maybe. Water. Humidifier.”

“Not a problem. We’ll take a little trip into town and get a humidifying machine, shall we? I’m sure I’d only buy the wrong one if you didn’t come with me.”

Yes, Aziraphale is terribly understanding. He’s never dealt with Crowley’s sheds before but of course he does everything perfectly. 

And Crowley - well, sheds heighten anxiety in snakes and he’s not just snake, is he? No tiny snake brain for him, with tiny snake concerns. No, he’s got human anxiety mixed in there too, along with some occult immortal being existential crisis angst. He feels like he’s crawling out his skin metaphorically as well as very very literally, and now on top of it all, he’s got something to lose. He’s got an angel to call his own, and all he wants to do is lay down and sleep for a month. Anything to stop the little voice in his head that says once Aziraphale sees this, and truly _knows_ him, he’ll be out the door faster than - faster than - faster than something bloody fast. 

It’s hard to think when the snake brain is taking over. 

The second sign comes when Crowley wakes up one morning and can barely see his hand in front of his face. That means it’s time to turn snakey, time to curl up and wait it out. He stumbles down the stairs, clinging onto the bannister. 

“Angel,” he mumbles, his skin tight around his mouth. “S’time.”

Aziraphale appears from the kitchen, a vague shadowy shape.   
“Come along then, darling,” the shape says. “Let’s get you settled.”

Very gently, Aziraphale’s fingers curl around Crowley’s. He must have been reading something, because Crowley didn’t tell him this bit. The worst bit. That he won’t want Aziraphale to touch him when he’s shedding, and that these days the thoughts of going even a day without that is too much to think about. 

The humidifier is already on in the office, as though Aziraphale knew it was coming. Crowley’s tongue sneaks out to taste the air. 

There’s a nest on the floor and Aziraphale guides him to it, helps Crowley sit down. 

“Angel,” Crowley rasps. “You know - you know you can’t touch me right? L’ hurt. But s’not you. S’not you, kay?”

“I know,” says Aziraphale, and then the shadow is right in front of him. Aziraphale has knelt down here in the dirt with him. “So this is just to last you.”

The angel very gently smooths a hand over Crowley’s forehead, fingers impossibly gentle in his hair. Soft lips barely brush his, a puff of warm breath. Crowley tastes it with his tongue. Aziraphale.

His angel is here. 

His angel is here.


	13. Freedom

“Come on, angel,” Crowley says, his fingers soft around Aziraphale’s hand. “Got something to show you.”

It’s been a bit of a drive to get here - wherever here is - and it’s nearly the middle of the night, but Crowley is excited about something and an excited Crowley is a very infectious one. So infectious that Aziraphale rather wants to kiss him, but it will wait for now. 

Aziraphale can hear waves somewhere up ahead, smell salt in the air. The trees around them are thick, blocking out the night sky, and then suddenly they open out onto the top of a high wooden staircase. 

They’re on a small cliff, and the sea is before them, lit only by the moon rippling out across the shifting surface. The stars are bright overhead, and Crowley sighs. 

“Pretty nice, huh?”

“Beautiful, my darling,” Aziraphale smiles. “How did you find it?”

“Just Googled. Wanted somewhere open.”

“Well, it’s lovely. I expect you’ve missed the stars lately.”

“Yeah,” Crowley grins, and drops Aziraphale’s hand. “But there was something else. Nice clear sky out there. No damn aeroplanes. Not too bright.”

There aren’t many places to stretch one’s wings these days. The last time Aziraphale had thought about it, he’d stepped out onto the street and looked up to see an aeroplane passing overhead, white trail streaking across the sky. That was rather the trouble with London; so many other things up in the air, and too many eyes on the ground watching too. 

And Heaven has never been big on the flying much either. The last time Aziraphale tried it, back when he was settled on Lindisfarne, Gabriel had written him up. 

Goodness, Lindisfarne. It had been longer than he thought. 

“Oh - are we going to fly? My dear, how thoughtful.”

Crowley just blushes, and whips off his sunglasses, tucking them into his pocket. 

“C’mon, angel. Let’s go.”

Crowley doesn’t need a run up. He never has done, slender thing that he is. He simply opens his wings, leaps into the air, and he’s away. Aziraphale used to be so jealous of him, the ease that he could get himself into the sky. Now he admires the shadow as it speeds away from him, dipping low to the water and back up again. 

“Come on, angel!”

Aziraphale shakes out his wings, rolls up his sleeves. He takes a measured few steps back, a deep breath, and runs to the edge of the stairs. His toes brush the wood as he flings himself into the air, clumsy after being out of practice, and for a moment his stomach flips - _his wings aren’t going to hold him._

Then there’s a hand wrapping around his, and Crowley is pulling him into the air. 

“Flap!”

The demon is so strong. Aziraphale always forgets how strong he is. 

He has no doubt Crowley would carry him like this to the end of the earth. Crowley who has never dropped him. 

Crowley tugs him up, grabs at his other hand so they’re joined, pulls him up higher into the air. 

“Do y’feel it, angel?” he cries, voice whipping away on the cool breeze. “We’re free!”

Aziraphale pulls him closer, kisses him soundly, because he loves Crowley and Crowley loves him, and they’re free to do it now. Free to do this, to take to the sky just because they want to, to kiss just because they can.

Free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing these, singing Sunday in the Park with George: Anything you do, let it come from you, then it will be new.


	14. Letter

Crowley’s handwriting is atrocious. In the days of ink and quill, it would look as though a spider had taken a bath in a vat of wine, then stumbled into the inkwell, and then Crowley had employed it to write the letter for him. 

And now, with biro - a horrible invention but one designed to at least keep the ink in - Crowley manages to make even more of a blotty mess of the page. The page, by the way, which comprises of the cheapest and nastiest notepaper that the demon can find, just because he knows how much Aziraphale hates it. 

Gingerly, Aziraphale picks up the coffee stained envelope, thankful that Crowley doesn’t have much reason to write to him these days - and never really has done. Letters have been necessary on occasion, but only when there’s been no other way of getting in touch. 

And not, it must be said, ever in a red envelope. 

But then Crowley is very up to date on these things, so if there is a new fashion for brightly coloured stationary, Aziraphale will not comment on it. 

He slits the envelope open to find not a letter but a card. 

A card covered in cartoonish angels in nappies, wielding bows and arrows. In a black marker pen someone - presumably Crowley - has drawn little bow ties around the angels’ necks.

Aziraphale is blushing and he isn’t sure why. 

A Valentine.

He and Crowley had both knows Valentinus, back in Rome. Aziraphale had been there when the poor man was killed, one of the sadder martyrdoms he had borne witness to. Celebrating love seemed a poor reason for Heaven to be meddling that time. But Crowley, it turned out, had been sent to tempt the man in his cell, to give up and thrown himself on Rome’s mercy. 

“Nice bloke,” was all the demon would say about it later. “Shame your lot got to him first.”

He opens the card to Crowley’s usual scrawl taking up all the available space.

_Angel. Love to see the human’s faces if they ever saw a real cherub, huh? Anyway, dress up for dinner, we’re going somewhere fancy. Your Valentine._

‘Your’ has been underlined several times, and Aziraphale runs a fingertip over the words. Crowley is thinking of him today, on the day that humans have set aside to celebrate love. 

Slowly he raises the card to his mouth, presses his lips to it, holds it as gently as if he’s cradling Crowley’s heart in his hands. 

It’s coffee stained and it’s messy. It’s all Crowley.


	15. Skin

They’re not even bright enough to smuggle him in the back way. Crowley smirks as they shove him onto the escalator to take him up to Heaven. Anyone could be watching but then Sandalphon was never known for his brains. 

Crowley is so busy smirking, trying to move unfamiliar muscles into a look that he’s seen on Aziraphale’s face before, that he doesn’t notice the odd ache at first. But the further up they get, the closer to Heaven, the worse that it gets. A burning in his - Aziraphale’s - thigh. By the time Sandolphon shoves him off the top of the escalator, the leg gives way beneath him. 

“Get up,” Uriel hisses, tugging him up by his collar. “None of your games.”

Crowley tests the leg gingerly, finds it will hold him after all. He limps along until he’s pushed into an office and into a chair. Sandolphon ties the knots extra tight. He’s always been like that. 

They leave a bored looking angel to watch over him, but she’s not paying any attention. She’s so young, sure she doesn’t know Aziraphale at all. She doesn’t know what’s normal for him or not. Crowley just needs to breathe and stay calm. Aziraphale has a cool head, when all is said and done. 

Cool enough, apparently, that his corporation could be in this much pain and Crowley has never known about it. 

He wiggles his fingers, just enough that he can press a fingertip to the dull throbbing. It’s warm, even through the trousers. What the hell has the angel been hiding?

“What the hell have you been hiding, angel?” he asks later, when they’re both safe in the book shop. “Your bloody leg gave out in Heaven. I fell on my arse.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale, very drunk, says. He looks at Crowley from under his eyelashes. “In the war, my dear. It only plays up when I go up there.”

And then, even later on, when they’re curled in Aziraphale’s bed, Crowley will peel back the blanket and find a fine golden scar that runs across Aziraphale’s thigh. He’ll stroke the skin, trace the fracture lines, curse whoever did this, until Aziraphale trembles beneath his fingers. The angel doesn’t always have a cool head. That is something else Crowley will discover that day.


	16. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been binge reading CopperBeech's fics this past few weeks, and they have some very delightful ones that are mostly just conversations. I like them so much I thought I'd have a go at doing one myself :)

“Goodness my dear, it _is_ rather tight, isn’t it?”

“Uh. What did I tell you, angel? Just get on it with it, will you?”

“I’m trying. It’s just - I’m a bit nervous. All fingers and thumbs.”

“ _You’re_ nervous? What the heaven are you doing back there?”

“Trying to - oh dear.”

“What?”

“I think I might just be making it worse.”

“Angel. All you have to do is-”

“I know, I know! Is anyone coming? Can you see?”

“Course I can, see in the dark, can’t I? And no, there’s nobody.”

“I might just - would you mind awfully if I miracled it? I’ll make something up for the report if Gabriel asks.”

“Do whatever you need to, angel. Will only burn a bit, I’m a big boy.”

“If you didn’t get yourself into this situation in the first place-”

“Spare me the bloody lecture. Anyway, who’s been going round teaching these idiots about blessing stuff, huh? _Blessed_ rope? What do they need that for?”

“Well - for this. I suppose they feel more protected against - demonic activity.”

“Bollocks. They never catch anyone who’s an actual threat, do they? Just a bunch of old ladies with too many cats.”

“They have caught you, Crowley.”

“Bollocks. Are you done yet?”

“I think so. Can’t you feel it?”

“Feels tingly. A lot better than being discorporated anyway.”

“Hold on, I’ll get the rope away from you. Can you walk?”

“They only knocked me around a bit. I let them do it. Safer than fighting back.”

“If you’re sure -”

“I’m fine. Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

“London? I have a rather good vintage in my rooms, if you’d care for a drink.”

“Sounds great. Let’s go before anyone notices I’ve gone.”

“They’ll be uproar in the morning.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you _going_ to tell me what happened?”

“Got tied to a stake on a bloody big pile of firewood. You came to help. The end.”

“Crowley-”

“That’s all you’re getting. At least till I’m pissed. Let’s go.”


	17. Veil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has a common slur used against a woman in it, in case that isn't your thing.

_Ancient Akkadia_

In a small town in the Taurus Mountains, there is a ruckus in the marketplace. 

Aziraphale does not tend to seek out trouble, especially in these fringe towns, where the rule of the king does not quite reach, and the people are more volatile. But he is swept up with the crowd heading that way, and so he follows. 

They talk so quickly here, in a thick accent he isn’t used to, and so he doesn’t know for sure what has got them so excited. He only hears a few snatches of words, and many of them are not very pleasant - _whore_ is chief amongst them. Then he catches another - _red hair_.

His stomach gives a strange pulse, and although he cannot sense him anywhere nearby, his mind goes to the demon Crawley. 

He speeds up, eases his way through the crowd, barely needing to use angelic influence to move them out of his way as they are all going so fast. 

In the marketplace, he sees a woman on her knees. At least he thinks it is a woman. She is veiled, slim, _cowering_. The crowd bays around her. One man steps forwards and snatches the veil from her head, tossing it to the ground. Aziraphale pushes through the crowd. The woman has long red hair, falling over her face, so he cannot see her features. 

_Crawley?_

The demon has never appeared as a woman before, but that doesn’t mean he can’t, and red hair _is_ so very rare in these parts. 

“Whore, whore, whore,” the crowd chants, and the woman curls into herself. Is is Crawley? Hard to tell, but the set of the slender shoulders, the utter stillness. Perhaps, perhaps.

Aziraphale shouldn’t care, even if it is. If the demon has got herself into trouble for not knowing the laws, for wearing a veil when she is working her wicked wiles, then it is no business of his. But she does look so small, and the crowd is so large. 

Men move to seize her, and Aziraphale moves first, before he really knows what he is doing. He pulls the woman to her feet, turns her to face him, looks into her eyes. 

It isn’t Crawley. Just some other unfortunate soul, who is sobbing and clutching at his sleeves.

“Please,” she says. “Please.”

He isn’t so far from Heaven that he doesn’t recognise a prayer when he hears one. So he removes his coat, throws it over her head and surrounds them both with just enough angelic influence that they can sneak away through the confused crowd. 

At the edge of town, he produces another veil from nowhere, and hands it to her.

"Go," he says. "Far away."

"Thank you," she whispers, taking the veil from him. Her hair is enchanting, falling about her face, and she sweeps it up to cover it properly, looking up at him with shy eyes.

And Aziraphale cannot look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one needed some research to make sure I got it right!
> 
> In ancient Mesopotamia and Akkadia, it was forbidden for slave women and prostitutes to wear a veil. The punishment for women who shouldn't have been wearing them was very severe, as was the punishment for anyone who tried to help her escape.


	18. Habit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one works as kind of a counterpoint to yesterday's - when I saw the prompts together in the list I had a feeling it might end up like this :)

Crowley is no stranger to a nunnery. 

There was that brilliant time back when he’d been stuck in rainy old Cornwall trying to corrupt King Arthur, and Aziraphale was refusing to agree to the Arrangement and Crowley had just had enough of the whole bloody affair.

So he’d joined the local nuns for a while, just to get out of the weather. They disapproved of her red hair and made her cut it short, but apart from that, there were worse places to spend a week or two. Especially when she pretended she was ill and curled up in bed for most of it. Couldn’t be up and about, the consecrated ground hurt her feet too much. But bedrest, soup if she wanted it and beer every day? Could have been worse. Better than a bloody tent, anyway. 

So now Crowley is stalking around the walls of a different nunnery, this time in the sunshine. Italy is a much nicer country than England. Why can’t this be his base of operations? Used to be, back in the day.

He gets himself ready for his old blind beggar routine; bandage round the eyes, bandages on his feet. Always gets him in when he needs to be of the male persuasion for a job like this. 

The nuns are wonderful, as always, guiding the poor helpless man inside, opening the nest to the cuckoo. The abbess is his target, but for now he will let the gentle hand on his arm guide him to a place at the table in the kitchen. 

“I will return, brother,” the woman says. “I must tell the abbess and the priest of your coming.”

As soon as she’s gone, Crowley is up, lifting his bandage enough to peer around him. There’s voices in the garden and he looks out of the window. 

Does a double take.

Looks again.

There’s four nuns gathered out there, working together. Three of them look very Italian, with olive skin tanned dark by the sun. But the fourth. Pale, with blonde curls that creep out from under her wimple. Soft curves beneath a habit that is riding up at the ankle. 

_Angel._

Crowley’s never seen Aziraphale like this. Didn’t know that she ever presented this way. 

_Beautiful. Someone, his angel is beautiful._

Then the nun turns, laughing at her companion, and Crowley sees her face.

It isn’t the angel. Just a beautiful, happy woman, content in her work. 

Crowley ducks down, slides back into his seat. Replaces his bandage.

Presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Hard.


	19. Waiting

Making tea - making it _properly_ \- has become one of the true pleasures of Aziraphale’s existence. 

He never applies miracles to the process, never does anything less than boil the water, wait for the tea to steep, add milk just the way he likes it. Tea is not a thing that can be treated with any urgency, and so he is not urgent about it. It has been a ritual for many cultures around the world, many people who find comfort and familiarity with their ceremonies. And this, the British ceremony, is one that Aziraphale has always been very fond of. 

He has a tea set he’s been using since Victoria was on the throne, with cups gently worn with age and handling, a teapot that did once upsettingly need to be repaired. The kettle boils, a high pitched shriek, and he pours the water into the pot. Sets out two cups. Thinks a moment and takes one away. Replaces it with a mug, good and sturdy. The bone china cups had once numbered six, till Crowley dropped one and Aziraphale has gently protected the rest ever since. The demon is too inclined to be distracted, too likely to knock something over with his flailing, too likely to doze off with the cup in his hand. 

He doesn’t think Crowley minds it, the precaution.

The water steams as he traps it in the pot, and he goes to the fridge to get the milk. He has never bought milk in his life, but as he expects it to be there, it always is when he needs it. He has never moved away from the thicker stuff of the past, almost more cream than milk. Crowley always laughs at that, dips his finger in the jug and licks it clean. 

“So decadent, angel, even for a cup of tea.”

“It tastes the best.”

“I know. Don’t mind it thick and creamy myself. Always had a taste for it.”

Aziraphale puts some biscuits onto a plate, adds it to the tray. Ginger snaps. Not too sweet, leaves a strong taste in the mouth. He’s been partial to those for a long time. 

“Angel, is it gonna be all day?” Crowley calls from the back room, where he is lounging on the sofa. He’s been lounging there for a while now, stalked in and put himself there when the shop was still open. Stayed there, when the shop closed. 

“Patience, my dear,” Aziraphale replies. “All in good time.”

Tea requires a great deal of waiting, insists that the world slows down until it is ready and not a moment too soon. Pour it too early and it will be weak and watery. The creamy milk will ruin it and the sugar, the sweetness, will overpower it. 

Aziraphale will wait for it, happily. He hopes that he is teaching Crowley to do the same.


	20. Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this prompt list could have been written for them.

Crowley is pride. 

Crowley is temptation. 

But Crowley is not evil.

And he is not - _not_ \- sin.

Crowley is love.

And love is not sin. 

You don’t want me, angel, he gasps against Aziraphale’s neck, his fingers coiled in Aziraphale’s coat. You _shouldn’t_ want me.

Crowley is a liar.

Aziraphale knows that now. How the demon has kept this from him for centuries, for millennia. Crowley is a liar, so used to lying that he is still lying now, even as he holds onto Aziraphale so tightly the angel is worried his nails will rip holes in his coat. Still lying even as his mouth presses to Aziraphale’s throat. 

Crowley is a liar. 

But Aziraphale is a liar too. The better of the two of them, for here he is, cradling Crowley, kissing his face, and the demon still believes that he doesn’t want him.

I do want you, Crowley, he says, the words so easy where once they were so hard. Please.

Crowley sobs.

You can’t, angel. You’ll fall.

Oh darling. We’re past that now. 

Crowley’s hand fumbles, rips off his glasses. They clatter to the floor. 

His eyes are wild. Wild and beautiful.

Crowley _is_ beautiful. He always has been. 

Beauty is not a sin. 

Aziraphale sinks back in his chair, puts his hands around the demon’s waist. Pulls him, tugs him along, for once the one leading the way. Crowley follows. Kneels over him. Aziraphale shivers. A demon on his knees for an angel. Once upon a time that would have meant something. 

Crowley is shaking. Perhaps he feels it too, the strangeness of it. 

The rightness of it too. 

Aziraphale kisses him, hands still at his waist, pulls him closer. 

Crowley is a snake but you’d never know it from the heat pouring off him, the sweat beading at his brow. Red hair and long limbs, folded in Aziraphale’s lap, clinging to him. No human has ever felt like this in his arms. 

Crowley is brimstone and hellfire. 

But Crowley is not sin. 

Love is not a sin. 

And if this is _not_ love, if this grasping, desperate, joyful togetherness _isn’t_ love, then the both of them are better liars than they could possibly know.


	21. Thirsty

“Crowley! Over here!”

The demon turns to see Aziraphale head and shoulders above the crowd around him, and realises he is standing unsteadily on a bench. Shaking his head, Crowley grins and pushes his way through the gathered men. He doesn’t even need to use demonic influence here; red hair is respected and a little bit feared. He sticks out like a sore thumb, whilst Aziraphale - besides being half a foot shorter than most these people - fits right in with his blond curls. Crowley would never have spotted him. 

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says, looking up into Aziraphale’s red face. “Having a good time?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says, then sways dangerously as he lifts his tankard for another drink. Without thinking, Crowley reaches out and grabs the front of his tunic, guiding him safely down to ground level.

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinks at finding himself on the ground. Then he smiles, the brightest smile Crowley has ever seen from him. It’s stunning. 

“Have you tried the mead, my dear? It’s magnificent.”

“Only just got here,” Crowley says, grinning back, because the angel is contagious when he’s like this, and Crowley is helpless. 

“Well, let us rectify that!” 

Aziraphale hares off into the crowd, weaving past tables, somehow managing to drink at the same time. Crowley trails along, eying the people around them. Iceland is bloody freezing - comes with the name - but this hall isn’t bad, with the roaring fires and the press of bodies, and an angel who is so happy he’s practically glowing. 

Oh. Shit. No, he actually _is_ glowing.

And some of the humans are looking their way. 

“Angel,” Crowley hisses, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm. “You’re looking suspicious!”

“Huh?” Aziraphale turns, another flagon on his hand which he holds out to Crowley, spilling half of it on the floor. 

“Come on,” Crowley says, pulling him to the ground. “Under here.”

Crowley hadn’t expected to end his day under a table in Iceland, with a very drunk angel leaning against his shoulder. 

But then so few parts of his existence ever seemed to be planned that he’d stopped taking it personally. 

He takes a sip of the mead instead. Not bad at all. Sweet, which is why Aziraphale likes it. And strong, which is why he’s drunk off his arse. 

“Why - why are you here?” Aziraphale asks.

“Usual. Few temptations. Newly converted place, lots of potential.”

“Should thwart you. S’what I’m meant to do.”

“I should tempt you. What I’m meant to do.”

A pause, as Aziraphale’s pickled brain processes this, and then he laughs. 

“Cheers!”


	22. Protector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is accidentally so long it is almost a one shot XD

She’s never noticed the bookshop on the corner before, but then she’s never walked past it with Toby either. 

“Mummy, look! Look at that!”

His nose is pressed to the window and Ella flinches at the trail of snot he leaves there. And the fingerprints. 

“Look, Mummy!”

It’s a snake. Curled up on a cushion in the sun, basking. Not even in a tank. Ella steps back.

It’s _huge._

“Can we go and see him, Mummy? Please, please.”

Toby never asks for anything. 

“Alright,” she says, taking his hand. “But you have to be quiet. Snakes don’t like loud noises. And you mustn’t touch.”

If the snake is just in the window, she reasons, it must be friendly. No sane person would have something like that loose in a shop. At least, she hopes not. 

The inside of the shop is warm and dusty, and much bigger than it looks from the outside. It’s also deathly quiet. At least, it is until her little boy starts bouncing up and down on his toes. Shouldn’t a shop like this be thriving in a place like Soho? Her neck prickles. Someone is watching them. She’s sure. 

“Mummy, it’s over here. This way.”

Toby has no qualms about anything except seeing the monster up close, but even he grows quieter and quieter as they approach the snake curled up in a patch of sun. It looks even bigger this side. It could crush Toby without a second thought. It could crush _her_ without a second thought.

She clings to Toby’s hand. 

“He has a red tummy. What a handsome boy,” Toby coos, and Ella has to smile. Her handsome boy. That’s what she’s always called Toby, since the moment he came into her life. 

“Yes, he is rather,” says a quiet voice behind them, and Ella almost jumps out of her skin as a man glides into view. He must be the bookshop owner, or at least work here. He’s dressed like every fussy librarian in every child’s cartoon. 

“Sorry for bursting in,” Ella says. “Toby - my son - he loves snakes. All animals really, but snakes - he saw yours in the window and he just wanted to say hello.”

“Quite alright,” the man says softly, and Ella feels her shoulders loosen as he smiles down at Toby. 

“So you like Brother Snake, young man?”

“Yes, yes! What’s his name?”

“Ah - um, Anthony.”

“That’s a funny snake name,” Toby grins. “Can I touch him?”

“What did I say?” Ella begins, but the book man nods and holds out his hand. Toby glances up at her and she nods slowly. 

“He doesn’t always like to be touched,” the man explains. “But he’s a very good guard dog. He let you in the shop, so he must think you are friendly.”

Ella stands, frozen to the spot, as the snake suddenly shifts and rears up, its head level with Toby’s eyeline. 

“Now, like this,” the man says, running his fingertips over the snake’s head. If Ella didn’t know better, she’d say that the thing is _purred._

Toby, calmer than she has ever seen him, puts out his hand and waits. The snake sways, seems to eye the man, then bows its head so Toby can stroke carefully over the smooth scales. 

“There. He does like you.”

“Handsome boy,” Toby says. “Handsome snake.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” the man says, and after a second Ella realises he is addressing the snake. 

_Okay. Time to go._

“Say thank you, Tobes,” she says. “Let Anthony go back to his nap.”

Toby is glowing as they thank the man and leave, and as Ella glances back she sees the man gently holding the snake’s face in his hand, lean down and kiss its head. 

Well, someone has to love the beast. 

And honestly, in Soho...she’s seen weirder stuff.


	23. Nighttime

When the baby fusses, Nanny paces. 

When the baby fusses at night, Nanny paces outside to save waking the rest of the house. 

Warlock fusses a lot. Maybe it’s because he’s the literal Antichrist, and he’s getting in some early practice at being a menace.

But maybe it is because he’s just a baby, and that is what babies do. And this baby in particular, this little tiny helpless thing, must know that the arms that cradle him, the arms that he knows best in the whole world, do not belong to the people who should be loving him most. 

Crowley has held a lot of babies in six thousand years. None of them have ever made him feel quite so lost when he looks into their eyes.

But Nanny is sensible and easy going despite her fearsome look, and she doesn’t mind the crying. She understands Warlock, and she likes to think he understands her. Two creatures who are not loved enough. 

Her breath mists in the air as she slips into the garden. It is late, past midnight, and the grass is already frosting over. The baby is wrapped in layers of blankets, squirming and wailing, his little arm working free to wave around and signal his sheer displeasure at life, the universe, everything. Patiently, Nanny tugs the blanket back around him, brings him up to rest on her shoulder. Bounces him up and down. 

Warlock snuffles against Nanny’s jacket, and she picks her way carefully across the lawn, steps into the flood of moonlight on the grass. He will stop crying soon, the fresh air good for him, and she will pace him to sleep, the pacing good for her.

Down further still, away from the darkened house, there is a light on in Brother Francis’ little cottage. Nanny imagines Aziraphale in there, probably free of his disguise for the night, curled up by the fire, book on his lap, cocoa in his hand. 

He always leaves a light on, he says, in case Crowley wants to come down. Or Nanny. Aziraphale doesn’t mind which. 

Tonight though, Nanny just wants to hold the baby. She shifts him slightly, gets his soft head under her nose, takes a deep breath. Through the ice cold of the air, he smells sweet. Every baby Crowley ever held smelled like Warlock smells now. It’s amazing to think that even the Antichrist, Prince of Darkness, Destroyer of Worlds, smells like that. 

He’s just a baby right now. She’s never sensed an ounce of malice in him. Nothing but a bone deep melancholy that is strange from such a little thing, but not unknown. Cain was the same, Moses, Jesus. A hundred, a thousand other little children who were born knowing somehow the sadness of the world they were to inherit. It is not so unusual. 

Crowley had, after all, been to one to give such knowledge to humans. 

He’d never meant to. Not to hurt them. 

And now Nanny is holding the end of the world, cradling it in her arms, pacing and bouncing and shushing it when it cries. She’s raising it, gently and carefully, and she loves it. 

Someone help her.

She loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, more Warlock because it just kills me dead.


	24. Unstoppable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one is still T rated but if you are of a delicate constitution it might be skirting closer to the mature end of that rating. Then again, it's all only implied so I think we are safe.

Once he’s allowed to, Aziraphale loves him with all of his heart and soul. Everything he has, he loves with. Every part of himself. Crowley wonders why he ever thought that wouldn’t be the case. An angel who loves his clothes so much he wears them for a hundred years. An angel who loves his books so much he’s built them a home. An angel who loved Heaven so much he was willing to put himself on the line to make it better. Why wouldn’t he love his demon just as much?

Aziraphale, from the moment Crowley is brave enough to kiss him for the first time, is insatiable. He never stops. Crowley has never been touched so much as he is now. Casual touches; hand holding and fierce embraces and bodies pressed knee to shoulder when they sit together. More deliberate touches; fingers in his hair, soft kisses and sleeping chest to back. And then there’s the rest; the hands that grip Crowley’s wings just so and bring him to his knees. The firm press of a thigh between his. The featherlight trace of fingertips on overheated skin.

Crowley has never been loved like this. 

Crowley has never been loved.

It should be too much. This sudden granting of every wish he ever made. The sudden reality of every dream he ever had. The sudden truth to every fantasy he’s every entertained.

It should be too much. 

But Crowley has always been good at adapting. Change your hair, change your clothes, change your body, change yourself. Change has been his constant companion. 

Aziraphale finds it harder to keep up with the relentless march of time. He always has done. Always a few years behind, a decade here, a decade there. Never quite up to speed.

But if Crowley is the Bentley, rushing around at 90 miles an hour and finally bursting into flames, then Aziraphale is the ark. Slow and steady but never stopping. Slow and steady, but harbouring enough teaming life and love within him that it’s enough to keep the world turning. 

Enough to keep Crowley’s world turning. 

And on his knees, in front of his angel, or pressed into a soft mattress, or pushed up against the kitchen counter top, Crowley finally slows down too.


	25. Luck

The Ritz is, despite what some people might think, not that hard to get a table at. Well, not that difficult as long as you book well enough in advance. Two months is usually enough. But in theory, not that difficult.

Which is why it is always strange how the odd gay couple always end up with the best table in the place, and they’ve never, ever booked it. 

Samuel has been at the Ritz a long time; started as a bus boy, worked his way up to assistant manager, and he’s been watching them for a long time. He’s never known luck like it. One time they turned up just as he was getting off the phone to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s secretary, who was cancelling the afternoon reservation because of ‘churchy things.’

So of course, first come, first served, and the strange couple got the table. Three months later, the princess of Jordan cancelled just as they walked in the door. So Samuel gave them the table, because they were there. 

They’re on his mind now, that couple. Yesterday had been a funny day - odd weather and funny noises in the sky - and the dining room had been quiet. 

“Yes, your excellency, we understand,” he says, jotting down the message from the ambassador of South Africa. “Of course. We look forwards to seeing you when you have the time.”

He hangs up the phone, crosses through the booking and looks up at the door. 

_Five, four, three, two, one._

The door opens and in they step.

Magic. 

“Hello, my dear,” the older man says. Mr Fell. Owns a bookshop in Soho. Nice man, but he always looks at Samuel like he can read his mind. “We just thought we’d pop in and see-”

“Yes, Mr Fell. As luck would have it, we do. Just opened up.”

“Oh lovely,” he smiles, clapping his hands together.

“How are you today, sir?” Samuel asks, leading them to the table. Mr Fell is practically bouncing and Mr Crowley seems very relaxed compared to usual. 

“Oh, quite wonderful. We’ve had some success with our - careers. We’re here to celebrate.”

“I’d say more than success, angel,” Mr Crowley drawls as he slides into his usual seat. “It’s a very best champagne day.”

Mr Fell blushes and grins, his hands already fluttering over his napkin. 

“Well if you insist, my dear. A bottle of the finest please to start then.”

“Of course. Diego will bring it over for you.”

As he heads back to his post, Samuel glances over his shoulder to see Mr Fell lean in so close that he almost has his lips on Mr Crowley’s ear. 

They aren’t usually so lovey dovey. Whatever has happened must be very good.


	26. Theory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically Sir Terry's Small Gods distilled into a tiny ficlet. They were bound to discuss it eventually.

“I don’t know what to think of all this, angel,” Crawley says, stretching out on the warm stone. “Plato has some interesting ideas, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale sips from his skin of wine, squinting against the low sun as he watches Plato walk amongst his followers. Touching their heads, as though he is of something divine. “No one has ever put so much time into just talking about things as these Greeks seem to do. Asking questions.”

“Well, I know for a fact that asking questions isn’t always the best way to make yourself popular with your gods. Seems Zeus and his pantheon don’t mind it as much as some others do.”

Crawley’s voice is light, but when Aziraphale looks over, he is frowning slightly. Perhaps the sun is in his eyes. He’s mentioned before that they can be sensitive. 

“Zeus, Crawley? Really?”

“There are more things in heaven and earth than exist in your philosophy, angel.”

“Oh. That’s rather poetic, my dear.”

“It is, isn’t it? Point is, these guys believe in something else. Not like they’re the first to, are they? Plenty of people going around not believing in Her. Maybe they’re onto something.”

“But my dear, we exist. Surely that is proof enough that She _actually_ exists? Whereas I’ve never seen anyone on top of Mount Olympus. And believe me, I’ve checked.”

“Not sure it matters,” Crawley shrugs, then sits up. He takes the skin of wine from Aziraphale’s hand, downs most of what is left. Clicks his fingers and fills it up again. Proof again of Her power, even as he is saying these pagan things out loud. 

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? There is no council of gods on the top of that mountain.”

“It doesn’t matter, angel, because only people who believe in Her will believe in us, or any of us. Any of what we can do. So if you don’t believe in their gods, what do they care? They do, and so they exist. For them.”

Aziraphale’s head is starting to ache. Crawley has always been able to talk circles around him. 

“But you and I are here, right now. We exist.”

“Yep.”

“And Zeus does not.”

“He does for them. Do you see the difference?”

“I - I don’t think I do.”

Aziraphale has never felt as though he is lacking in the brain department, especially compared to some of the angels up there. But Crawley. Crawley leaves him breathless and wanting. 

“If one of these Greeks had wandered into the desert instead of Moses and seen that burning bush, what would they have seen? Would they have thought it was Her power, or would they have thought the sun caught a shrub on fire?”

“Well - they don’t believe in Her.”

“So - “

“So - I suppose - just a fire?”

“But Moses believed and so he saw Her, heard Her speaking to him. You go up to the top of Olympus and you don’t see anything, because you don’t believe. But ask any of these guys and they will tell you the unusual rock formations are the seats of the gods.”

“How -” Aziraphale’s head spins. “How do you know this?”

“I _ask_ them,” Crawley shrugs, then gets to his feet, brushing off his robe. “Maybe you should talk to them more. You might learn something.” 

“But - you aren’t saying that She doesn’t exist.”

“Course I’m not. Been there, haven’t I? Got a whacking great hole in my chest where She used to be. Believe me, I know.”

“But you also are saying that their gods exist? For them. From their perspective.”

“Exactly. A god is only as good as the people who believe, huh?”

“That’s blasphemy.”

“Demon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, in this ficlet Crowley did come up with the heaven and earth line a bit before Shakespeare did. Yes, he did like the line a lot and kept it in his pocket for debates over the centuries and yes, Shakespeare did nick it. But he nicked a lot of things and he's still a genius, so I don't think it matters too much.


	27. Mirror

Everyone downstairs knows Crowley. Even if they’ve never met him, they know who he is. Mostly cos Duke Hastur goes about screaming his name at least once every century, sometimes more. Not very popular, Crowley, at least not with the brass. Someone must like him though, cos he’s got the cushy gig on earth and he keeps getting commendations. 

Kobal’s met him, a few times. Always a bit of a circus when Crowley comes downstairs. He’s never looked twice at Kobal, of course, and why would he? Kobal knows what they call him - the Disposable Demon. Bit of a bastard nickname, really. Not his fault that he’s one of the legions who get all the shit jobs. Not his fault they recycle his corporation every time he gets sent off to do another crappy assignment. So no, he’s never really met Crowley. He’s not important enough.

Been at the back of a presentation or two of Crowley’s though. Ran into him in a corridor once, one time even shared the lift with him. He’s a bit weird - been on earth too long - but as far as demons go, he’s alright. 

Kobal knows why he’s the one Dagon sends to deliver the hell fire. Disposable, isn’t he? Doesn’t matter if the angels are lying bastards and they smite him the minute he sets foot in Heaven. Still, nice to get out sometimes. He’s been getting out a lot lately. Didn’t even mind the trip to Meggido, even though Hastur went off his head even more so than usual. One big avocado. Bloody stupid. 

Heaven is all clean and shiny, and the angels are clean and shiny too. They don’t smite him, even that Sandalphon who looks at Kobal like he’d really, really like to. Kobal drops the fire off, no problem, and looks at the angel tied to the chair. 

Kobal knows he isn’t important. He knows he isn’t worth anything. 

He wants to make his mark.

“Can I hit him? Always wanted to hit an angel.”

He hasn’t always wanted that, not really. But this is the time. 

Gabriel shrugs, waves him over.

The angel is soft looking, with his worn out clothes and his fluffy hair. Kobal stalks over, stands in front of him. 

There’s nothing on the angel’s face. Nothing at all. 

Then he looks up, and Kobal’s spine snaps straight. His fist retreats. 

He doesn’t know Crowley, but everyone knows now what the demon has been up to, what they say he’s _done_ with this angel. Crowley has snake eyes and this angel just has pale blue ones, but Kobal knows. He’s been discorporated enough times to know trouble when he sees it.

And this is trouble.

Cos that’s no angel gazing up at him. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

He knows trouble. And this is about the most trouble he’s ever seen. 

So he gets the hell out of there, hightailing it. 

Later on though, when he’s back safe down in Hell, he laughs. Cos they said Crowley was down here, bathing in holy water, and they’ve heard that the angel walked into hellfire and survived, and no one knows anything.

But Kobal does.

For the first time, he’s important.


	28. Sober

The last thing Aziraphale wants or needs when he wakes up that morning is for a groaning demon to be laid flat out on his floor, covering his eyes and complaining about a headache. 

But here he is anyway.

“You should have dealt with it, Crowley,” he says primly, perching on the edge of the bed. He’s a bit shaken up himself; he doesn’t usually sleep at all, if he can help it, and although he sobered up in a bit of amazing forward thinking, he still doesn’t really feel like he can cope with Crowley. 

“Too bloody late now,” Crowley groans, tugging off his lenses and dropping them to the floor. “Why didn’t you remind me to?”

“I did. Probably. I probably did.” Aziraphale gets carefully to his feet, and apart from a little bit of swaying that makes his head spin, he manages to stay on them. Score one. 

“Be quiet. Please. Just let me lay here.”

Allowing the demon to hang about for too long is a dangerous move, but Aziraphale can feel his brain cells sitting down and refusing to cooperate, so he doesn’t say anything. Besides, they’re in a tiny town in the back end of nowhere, stuck out on the peninsula. No one is going to come looking for either of them here. 

“Stay there. I’ll be back.”

He wobbles out of the room, down the stairs, out onto the dusty street. The sun is fierce overhead. They slept a long time.

No wonder he’s hungry.

At the market, he buys too much food. Crowley won’t eat it. But he might drink some of the interesting new beverage that Aziraphale has been testing out. He buys a jug of that too. 

Back in the room, Crowley has performed the heroic effort of tossing all of the wine jugs they emptied into one corner, and then proceeded to pass out on the bed. He’s snoring. 

Aziraphale shoves him over, sits down. Takes out some dates and sinks his teeth into the sweet flesh. He always feels better after he’s eaten something. 

“Whas’at smell?” Crowley mumbles, peeling one eye open. “Kinda earthy.”

“It’s for you, my dear. The humans swear by it. They call it coffee.”

“What is it?”

“A rather marvellous drink. Gives them a spring in their step, I can tell you. It might help.”

Somehow, for he appears to have no bones in his body, Crowley sits up. He holds out trembling hands and takes the jug. He sniffs it, and Aziraphale tries not to smile as his tongue peeks out to have a taste of the air. 

“Bloody hell,” he says, as he takes a sip. “What _is_ it? Coffee?”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“It’s disgusting, angel. Bloody disgusting.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, gimme the jug. I didn’t say I didn’t want more, did I?


	29. Lullaby

Raphael played music in the nursery. 

They had always been able to sing. All angels could, with high and pure voices. Singing Her creations to life, guiding the stars into the sky. Heaven was full of sound. Full of joy. But Raphael was one of the first to look beyond what they had been given, one of the first to touch the harps that She gave to her angels. Raphael preferred the harp, in the end. For here now, they could play the strings, make the harp’s voice ring low and clear. 

There still was music, even with the whispers of rebellion.

Raphael took their harp to the nursery. Angels were made, not born, whole and perfect. But there was a place for the young ones, who had been made so much later, to gather and care for one another. Learn to preen, learn to create, learn to sing. The archangels called it the nursery, and it was a beloved place. 

And Raphael played their harp there, for the young ones. Angels did not need sleep, but Heaven was great and just, and there was time for leisure, time for simply being together. On the first day they played their harp, a swarm of young angels gathered to listen, to ask questions, to reach out tentatively and touch the strings. Raphael gently shooed them away, and played their music for them. 

Eventually, the young ones stopped being so interested and were content to listen, huddled together, hands on one another for comfort. All except for one, with a shock of blonde curly hair and blue eyes, who shuffled shyly to Raphael’s feet and gazed up at their nimble fingers playing over the strings. 

Raphael smiled down at their new companion, and did not protest when the angel put a tentative hand on their corporation’s foot, leaned against their bare leg. 

Raphael played their lullaby for the young ones and, most of all, for the one who dared to inch closer.


	30. Witch

Sergeant Shadwell, newly promoted to his rank following the untimely demise of Sergeant Houseplant, is a bloody genius. 

Or he thinks so anyway. 

Thirty years he’s been working for the Mr Crowleys, senior and junior, and making a steady wage of it too. But now he’s a sergeant, he’s thinking forwards a bit, and he reckons that the Mr Crowleys being mafia and all, they probably have workings with all types. Including and not limited to other types with money. Maybe even more than the Mr Crowleys have got. Could be a nice little earner, getting another mafia man on side. Maybe even a rival. He en’t above playing with fire. 

So he follows Junior to an old bookshop in Soho, not far coincidentally from the very place he met Mr Crowley senior and en’t that a good sign he’s onto a winner? Junior goes in and he takes so long in there Shadwell is just thinking about popping home for a cup of tea and a sandwich when he finally comes out and drives off in that car of his. Junior definitely did not arrive in said car though, which was a puzzle for later, when Shadwell wasn’t committing espionage. 

He wanders in bold as brass and comes up nose to nose with a funny looking bloke dressed in the kind of clothes Grandfather Shadwell kept for Sundays and funerals. 

“Oh my dear fellow, do excuse me,” the man says. “But I was just closing up for the day.”

It’s 2.30pm. Shadwell can appreciate a gent who values his time over his labour. 

“Don’t mind me,” he says. “Nae bother. I can come back.”

“Thank you, thank you,” the man says, and he’s almost shoving him out of the door with soft Southern hands, when Shadwell turns back. 

“I was actually just gonna give you my card,” he says, pulling a grubby example from his pocket. “Got my phone number on, that. In case you ever find yourself with an occult problem. That’s what I do. Solve ‘em.”

The bloke is pale already and he goes paler, then takes the card. Great soft pansy. One mention of the occult to this lot and they’re all losing their heads. 

“I shall bear it in mind.” The man tucks the card into his pocket and put out a hand. “Thank you, Mr -?”

“Sergeant Shadwell. You just keep that safe.”

Out on the street, Shadwell grins and shoves his hands into his pockets. It’s even better than another mafia man to make cash off. The bloke in the shop was done up all wrong, his buttons in the wrong holes, and his hair was a mess. Been all flustered like that too. 

Whoever he was, he knew Mr Crowley Junior _very_ well. Shadwell doesn’t care about that. Blokes can do what they want as long as they en’t witches. Or warlocks. 

But there is money to be made playing ‘em off each other. Easy money. And there’s nothing Shadwell likes better than that.


	31. Storm

On the first day of the rest of their lives, it rained. 

It stormed, 

It had been threatening all day, since the moment they stepped into St James’ Park, and all the way up to walking into the Ritz. A grey sky. A crackle of slight electric in the air that Aziraphale thought might have been due to the fact that there were a great too many angels and demons treading upon the Earth. It had always been like that back in the old days, when the occult and ethereal activity was rife on the dusty ground. There was always a storm afterwards, like the planet was trying to right the balance, to cleanse itself. 

But as they walked out of the Ritz, full of champagne and coffee and at least five courses, the rain had begun and the thunder was rolling. But it was just an ordinary storm. A very ordinary, not at all unusual London summer storm. The air would taste fresh afterwards, and the city would sigh with relief as the pressure eased. 

Just a normal storm.

But the rain was rather hard, and he and Crowley had already agreed miracles should remain unperformed for the time being, so he was quite prepared to get wet on the walk home.

But then Crowley was at his side, and he was holding an umbrella. Slowly, carefully, eying Aziraphale with a kind of desperation, as though it were even possible that Aziraphale didn’t remember - _of course he remembered_ , Crowley opened the umbrella and held it over him. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s knees shook, and then almost gave way as Crowley took his arm to guide him into the street. “Thank you, my dear.”

“No problem, angel,” he shrugged, so cool, so calm, but his long fingers were gripping Aziraphale’s coat so tightly he could have torn it if he was baring his claws. 

There were no words as they walked back to Soho, nothing in Aziraphale’s head except the frantic pulse of his own corporation’s heart, beating a steady rhythm. A rush of human blood around his body. And the warmth of Crowley’s hand on his arm, Crowley’s shoulder bumping his. 

His stomach wound tighter and tighter, till he was sure he’d have to stop them, tell Crowley he was unwell. The rain pattered on the umbrella, heavy and persistent, and the thunder rolled overhead. The lightning must have been far away, but there was a crackle anyway, something metal in the air. 

At the shop, he fumbled with his key, half fell in the door. He was resting his hands on the nearest table, trying to calm his heart, when he felt Crowley at his side. 

“Angel. Are you -”

Aziraphale grabbed him, hands shaking, fingers digging into the sleeves of Crowley’s jacket. He ached. His entire body ached, and every nerve was alive. Perhaps the electric was coming from _him._

It was too much. So he kissed him. Drew Crowley closer, kissed him. Slid hands into his hair, kissed him. Backed him into the table, kissed him. 

“Angel,” Crowley gasped. “Please. Only if you’re sure.”

The tang of the metal in the air. It was Crowley’s _desire_ and for the first time Aziraphale was tasting it. 

“”Oh my dear,” he said. “I am.”

Outside, the storm eased, and the city sighed with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I finished them all :) January has been about 96 years long, but finally here we are.
> 
> I had a blast with these, and have some ideas I want to explore further in longer form fics. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading along and even more so to the people who have commented a TON of times - you know who you are :) :)


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